


A Matter of Time

by TheLonelySheWolf



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clint is adorkable, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Laura is Clint’s sister, M/M, Oral Sex, Plenty of plot, Reader Has Powers, Smut, Smut in first chapter, Vaginal Sex, but not in the first chapter, set post-civil war, spoilers everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLonelySheWolf/pseuds/TheLonelySheWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed with the ability to control time, you approach Clint after the mess the Avengers' Civil War leaves behind. With the Accords forcing them into hiding, you could be the only hope they have of righting past mistakes. </p><p>But time is fickle and one mistake could prove to be fatal.</p><p>Lots of smut from the get-go and eventual fluff. Also open to small scene requests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen Civil War, firstly, I recommend you do. Like, right now. Secondly, there WILL be *SPOILERS* in future chapters, so don't say I didn't warn you. I'm open to feedback, and if you have little scenes etc. that you'd like to see, leave it in the comments! I had no intention of letting the first chapter get this big, but I really got into it. My smut writing is rusty, so be gentle!

 

After the events of Sokovia, you knew it was time to step forward. The thought of revealing yourself, however, was terrifying at best. For years you’d lived with your secret, keeping it well hidden while living a relatively normal life. Seeing the destruction and casualties caused by the latest Avengers scandal was enough to push you over though. If given the opportunity, you needed to make a stand.

Unfortunately for you, a lot happened after that. Time passed, and even for you, there was never a good time to make it happen. If you looked deep enough inside yourself, you knew you were just stalling, enjoying the normality while it lasted.

That normality was short-lived as everything reached breaking point.

The Avengers were in chaos. You followed the news closely as updates came about the war that was tearing them apart from the inside. The media remained quiet, with the exception of Barnes and the bombing. However, you were in the know-how, so information wasn’t entirely beyond your reach. Through your father’s contacts, you learnt about the Accords, and Captain America’s lack of cooperation. Months passed as you followed them, your heart ready to shred itself into pieces as a familiar name surfaced in the records.

Hawkeye.

He’d saved your life once, in New York. For the first time since discovering your unusual skillset, you’d been left vulnerable, knocked unconscious for a few minutes. He’d carried you out of harm’s way, the building collapsing only minutes later atop where you’d been.

Since then, you’d hoped to have the chance to thank him, but it had never come. You’d kept an eye on the news, listening for hints as they came, but still nothing. Sure, you shared New York with him, but it was a _big_ city.

Eventually, the dust settled, and the Avengers had gone into hiding. It seemed like you'd never get the opportunity to set things straight.

A few weeks later, however, things take a lucky turn.

After working back late in your father’s office, you decide you’ve earnt a drink downtown. After heading back home to change and doll yourself up, you catch a cab to one of your favourite bars. It isn’t overly crowded when you arrive; making it easy to spot the all-too-familiar figure slouched at the bar, even in the ridiculously dim lighting. He’s out of uniform, dressed in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt, allowing him to blend in with the other civilians.

Your heart jolts at the sudden surprise, your hands immediately clamming up with nerves. The room freezes to the stillness of a painting as you take a deep breath, giving yourself a couple of minutes to work up your nerve.

_You’ve got this, (Y/n)._

You release the flow of power, and the bar returns to its rowdy state, glasses clinking against wood as a sleazy melody thumps in the background. You weave through the mess of bodies clad in black and too-tight dresses, your pace determined but steady. There’s an empty stool beside him, and you slide into it, noticing how his shoulders tense at your presence.

“Evening, Agent Barton,” you say quietly, laying your hands flat on the bar in a gesture of peace. Even so, you can tell he’s jumpy, maybe less so than usual after a few drinks, but the instinct is still there. “Or is it just Hawkeye now?”

Slowly, he turns to regard you, his eyes widening a little as he takes you in, but otherwise wearing a lazy smirk. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage here,” he says in a low rumble, giving the low neckline of your red dress an appreciative glance.

“(Y/n),” you introduce yourself. You keep your surname a secret for now, not wanting to make the connection to your father obvious.

“To answer your earlier question, I’ll respond to either, but Hawkeye is more appropriate to my current position.”

“I see.” You wave the bartender over and order a drink. “I’ve spent the past couple of years hoping I’d run into you again,” you say quietly, staring at the rows of vodka and scotch bottles lining the opposite wall. You can’t bear to look at him now, he’s too distracting. You can still feel his body heat radiating against your arm, but it’s a damn sight better than drowning in his eyes.

“Again?” he asks, idly fingering the edge of his glass.

“You saved my life in New York. I was unconscious for a few minutes, and the building I was next to came down a few minutes after you carried me to safety. I wanted to say thank you.”

“I was just doing my job,” he says, and you can hear a faint smile in his voice. “You’re welcome, though. It’s a shame I didn’t have a chance to hang around at the time and better introduce myself.”

You flush a little, wondering if he’s implying what you think he is. You quickly realise you’re probably just imagining it — being too hopeful as usual.

You turn your head a little to look at from beneath your eyelashes, raising your eyebrows a little in question. “Oh?”

“Doesn’t matter now, it’s in the past. At least you’re here now,” he says lightly with a shrug.

“Can I be frank with you, Barton, uh, Hawkeye?”

He laughs quietly. “Just call me Clint. But sure.”

“I’d like to make an audition,” you say quietly, your voice dropping lower.

He eyes you thoughtfully, as if he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. “That depends. An audition for what?”

“I think you know,” you purr, leaning into him a little more. “How about I show you?”

His pupils seem to expand as he swallows, considering his answer. “Go ahead.”

“Finish your drink,” you instruct him, leaning back in your chair.

After only a moment’s hesitation, he complies, finishing the last half of his scotch. He moves to set the glass back down onto the bar but it’s full again by the time it hits the wooden countertop. He looks at you, his eyebrows raised. “I like you already.”

You smile, but don’t immediately respond.

“Watch the door,” you tell him, rotating in your chair. Even through the small crowd you both have a clear view of it. A blonde in a striking white dress walks in, immediately moving to the other side of the room to sit down. Barton doesn’t see the last part of her trip, still keeping his eyes on the door. The same blonde walks in again, in the same dress. He swears under his breath. She walks in twice more, a few seconds between each time.

“Okay, how the hell are you doing that? What is that? Clone magic or something?”

You laugh, feeling a little giddy after using your powers. “Not exactly. It’s a little more useful than that.”

He puts a hand on your forearm, his fingers hot against you skin. The contact is gentle, it feels nice. “You need to tell me what you’re doing. I won’t know if it can help the Avengers if I don’t know what it is,” he says quietly, his deep blue eyes boring into yours. There’s nothing desperate or greedy in his gaze, just a gentleness that’s edging closer to hope.

“I can manipulate time.”

 _Time is a very powerful enemy to have. You don’t want to get on his bad side._ The thought popped into your head from a movie you’d seen a couple months ago. A sudden panic consumes you as you realise what you’ve just done. Would Clint realise how dangerous you are and take you in as a prisoner? Or would he just cut to the chase and finish you off now? You’d probably never see it coming.

“(Y/n)?” he asks, his voice strained. You blink, making eye contact with him. “Are you okay? You went really still and pale. Did you overdo it?”

You shake your head. “Sorry, just lost my train of thought,” you try to dismiss, but your voice comes out quiet and shaky.

His hand finds your arm again, this time running his fingers gently back and forth to comfort you. “I’m not going to hurt you. The others won’t either.” He seems to know what you’re thinking without you needing to elaborate. He _really_ doesn’t miss his mark.

You let out a small sigh. “Sorry, seems silly now that I think about it.” He’s an Avenger —one of the good guys. You wanted to become one, after all.

“Do you wanna come back to the base? You can show the others your mad skills, make a proper audition. Not that you need it, clearly you’re a force to be reckoned with, being able to refill everyone’s drinks and all. Do that to Tony and you’ll have him in the palm of your hand.”

You laugh openly, the rest of the tension in your gut falling away. “Alright mister, take me to your castle.”

He quickly downs the rest of his drink, winking at you —“Didn’t want to waste it,”— before standing and offering his arm. Blushing a little, you take it, and he leads you away like you’re already partners in crime.

When you step out onto the dark street, he stops suddenly, your connected arms jerking you back unexpectedly. “Sorry,” he quickly apologises. “I just realised how far away the base actually is from here. The others won’t be back from their mission till tomorrow. I was actually planning to stay at a hotel tonight before driving myself in.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling suddenly deflated. “Well, I can just head home then if you’d prefer to meet up in the morning. Unless …”

“Unless?”

“I have a _really_ comfortable couch.” You immediately realise how stupid that sounds. It was true though. It was a really damn good sofa, the fold-out kind and everything.

“Really?” he laughs. “Not the kind of pick-up line I’m used to. It must be _really_ comfortable, huh?”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m serious, it is. I wasn’t trying to pick you up.”

“Well _damn_ ,” he says in a huff, almost sounding disappointed. With him though, it’s hard to tell when he _isn’t_ joking. “Still, you’ve got me curious about the couch. Can’t hurt, right?”

You shrug, giving him a small smile. He gives you one in return, his face half obscured by shadow but he’s still so damn attractive that you think maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all.

He hollers a cab and you buckle in, receiving a surprised look from Clint as you give the driver your address. You merely shrug, leaving you both to sit in a relatively comfortable silence. There’s a ridiculously cheerful song playing on the cab’s radio, and Clint whistles along to it quietly. You can’t help but smile as you listen to him, even as nerves claw at the bottom of your gut. You hadn’t brought a guy home for a while, even if it wasn’t for the usual intent and purpose.

A short time later, you reach the apartment tower, and Clint gives a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a skyscraper. Which floor are you on?”

“The top floor,” you say with a smirk, leaving him on the street as you quickly head into the lobby. After freezing time, you look back to see his eyes widened in surprise, his lips slightly parted. Your satisfaction is instant. You turn back around, allowing time to flow per usual.

“Evening Miss (Y/L/N),” the receptionist calls out as you pass. He’s in his seventies now, at least, and definitely one of your favourites. While his position requires him to be proper, he often shares jokes with you, many of which contradict his appearance. He’s a real sweetheart.

“Evening Charles,” you say politely. Behind you, you hear Clint finally catching up to you. “Don’t worry, he’s with me,” you explain, seeing Charles’s cursory glance toward the archer.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Charles says, giving you a wink, the sly old fox.

“I will,” you say, returning the gesture.

Clint joins you in the elevator, shaking his head a little. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” He gives you the full weight of his ocean-deep stare. Under the bright lighting of the elevator, you realise just how damn stunning he really is. Up until now, you’ve only seen him up close for a few seconds after regaining consciousness, and tonight, in the poorly lit bar and cab.

Now though, you can see how well fitted his black t-shirt is, outlining the muscle he’d earnt through years of fighting and training. And the veins along his bare arms and hands; hell, now that’s a sight. His eyes are even more entrancing though, beautiful in a way you don’t see very often. The colour itself is lovely, but it’s the way he seems to see _everything_ that makes them fascinating. You could stare at them for hours.

And you _are_ staring. You blink and look away after realising what you’re doing. The butterflies in your stomach stir a little, and you pointedly ignore them, glancing back at him. You realise then that he was staring just as much, and is _still_ continuing to do so, looking at you with the kind of intensity that suggests he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Like something you see?” You joke, raising your eyebrows as you shift a little, leaning back against the railing. You consciously realise you’re still wearing the red dress with the plunging neckline, and internally cringe a little at the situation. You’re always one to make things awkward.

He shakes himself then, looking away. There are mirrors all over the elevator though, so it’s hard to keep your gazes separated. The elevator gives a liberating ding, and you nearly sigh in relief. The tension is becoming near suffocating.

You both step out into the foyer, the decoration here kept simple but elegant, and _very_ expensive. You can feel Clint’s eyes on you again, trying to pierce through the back of your head as you unlock the door with your key card.

“ _Nice,_ ” you hear Clint say quietly to himself as you step into the living area. The kitchen is to your right, all finished in cream and marble and equipped with the highest tech available. To the left is the dining table and straight ahead the floor steps down onto a lower level where the lounge area is spread. Behind that there’s floor to ceiling windows showing the glittering city skyline.

“I’m starting to believe you about the couch. I mean, I live with Stark, but this is pretty swish compared to the base — the views a lot nicer here too. You sure you wanna downgrade?” Clint asks as he moves over to the windows.

“I’ll live in a barn if it means making a difference,” you say, stepping out of your shoes. You set down your key card and purse, making a bee-line for the fridge. “Drink?” you call over, hoping something strong will quell your nerves.

“Yeah, why not.”

“Whiskey alright with you?” He makes a sound of agreement and you grab a couple of chilled glasses, fill them with ice, and grab the bottle. Clint’s made himself at home on the couch by the time you reach him. You realise with a pang how perfect he looks there, and a part of you wishes this was an everyday occurrence.

After filling the glasses, you set down the bottle and pass him his. Grabbing your own, you briefly lift up his now sock-clad feet and sit down, placing them in your lap. He looks at you questioningly and you shrug to show you don’t mind.

“Cheers,” you say, lifting the glass before taking a gulp. It burns pleasantly on the way down. You hope it’s enough to kill the butterflies, or at least set their wings alight.

“You know I’ve gotta ask,” Clint says, breaking the silence. “You don’t have to answer, but I have to at least ask who the hell you are, or what job I should _really_ be doing.” He waves a hand at the living room by way of explanation.

You settle back into the couch, resting your free hand on his denim-clad leg. You’re surprised by how natural the arrangement feels. The pang in your chest this time around is lessened by the alcohol.

“My father owns Oxford Industries.”

“Oh, well that explains it.” As if it was the simplest thing.

You nod, taking another mouthful of whiskey, savouring the sweet burn. “It’s been hard keeping my abilities hidden while living as the heir to a monetary empire. I’ve met Stark before, at parties. Got to know him _real_ well.” You frown a little at the memory of one of your many drunken encounters. The sex wasn’t bad at least; you were just a little too similar in sass to get along well.

“Why didn’t you tell him what you can do? He’s been Iron Man for years now.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t ready for it. Back then, I wanted to live a normal life. I was afraid of becoming even more of a prominent figure than I already am. At least now, I can hide behind my father’s shadow. Compared to him, I’m still only a minor figure. If I became an Avenger, I knew that would change. You guys are all over the news. There are kids running around wearing Iron Man masks and carrying little Captain America shields. I wasn’t ready to become part of the franchise.”

“It’s not so bad. Well, for some of us. Widow and I don’t get a great deal of screen time. Like you and your Dad, we hide behind the others’ shadows. Unenhanced agents don’t get much mention.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” you agree, thinking back to the years spent keeping track of his rare Avenger appearances.

 “With your skills though, you’d probably become just as noticeable. Well that and, uh …”

“And what?”

He scratches behind his ear nervously. “You’re really attractive. That’s another one of the reasons Stark, Thor and Cap are so popular, especially with the ladies.”

“Shouldn’t the same logic still apply to you?”

“Eh, I’ve got scars and shit. Tony does too I suppose, but he’s a billionaire, so it evens out. And again, I’m still an unenhanced.”

You hum thoughtfully, running your hand along his calf without thinking about it. The tension should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. You wonder if the alcohol has some hand in that. Maybe. You’d refilled your glass and Clint’s three times already during the conversation.

Clint clears his throat, but you ignore it, staring blankly out at the skyline, your fingers still moving back and forth by their own free will. They reach his knee before moving toward his feet again, the action lulling you into a sense of calm.

“(Y/n),” Clint says, his voice sounding strained.

The sudden sound gives you a start, snapping you out of your dream-like haze. “Huh?” you ask, looking at him. His brow is furrowed a little, only a small ring of blue visible in the low light.

“You might wanna stop doing that before things get awkward,” he suggests. “I’m kinda sensitive there.”

“Oh, found your hotspot did I?” You tease, giving him a wink. He rolls his eyes.

“Not nearly. My inhibitions are a little low right now. I’m easily five drinks up on you.”

“Oh really,” you say, sounding disinterested. Your hand continues to trail up and down his leg.

“(Y/n),” he growls, setting his empty glass on the table. You grin, staring down at your moving hand. You know you’re playing with fire, but you know just how _good_ it’ll feel when it burns. For good measure, you halt your attentions to set your glass down beside his. You resume them immediately after.

“Right, that’s it,” Clint announces, moving suddenly. You don’t have a chance to realise what he’s doing before he has you pinned beneath him, one of his hands restraining your wrists against the arm of the couch while his thighs sit either side of yours. You suck in a surprised breath, your wide eyes boring up into his. After a moment, you smile.

“Now, are you going to behave yourself?” he asks, keeping his grip firm but gentle.

“Probably not,” you admit. “You’re proving to be a bad influence, Agent Barton.”

He smirks, shifting to sit back on your legs, pinning you down even more. Damn, this is hot, you think. You’re thankful for his grip on your wrists; otherwise your hands would already be roaming over his shoulders. He really _does_ bring out the worst in you. Well, at least where self-control is concerned.

“(Y/n),” he breathes quietly, his eyes searching yours.

“Give me your best, Barton,” you say before your brain can catch up. He moves in slowly, still giving you a chance to pull away, but you surprise him by meeting him halfway.

His mouth is just as warm as the rest of him and his movements are achingly gentle. He’s got stubble on his top lip which tickles you a little, but in a good way. He’s finally let go of your hands, leaving you to move them freely again, and you immediately tangle one of them in his already-messy hair, loving how it feels between your fingers. He’s pressed up against you now, his body flush against yours as you sink further into the couch. It’s big enough that you don’t have to worry about toppling off; it really _is_ a good couch.

You groan low in your throat, your breaths mingling together as your lips part, tongues tentatively meeting halfway. You feel yourself melting into it, your fingers running down his stomach and clinging to his shoulders. Your legs are wrapped around his waist now, pulling him up against you, stirring up a dangerous friction. He laps up your kisses like a starved man, like nothing else could taste as sweet. He feels so firm beneath your hands, his muscles hard and taut like a strung bow. There’s no place you’d rather be, than underneath Clint Barton.

“Fuck!” you gasp as he moves to your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive curve of it, gently grazing it with his teeth. He stops momentarily at your outburst.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice like gravel with arousal. His words are hot against your already-warmed skin.

“Yes, don’t stop, damn it!” you growl, digging your nails into his shoulder.

He resumes his attention, though this time it seems slower and more deliberate. The raging desperation from before has simmered a little, settling into something far more dangerous. Almost instinctively, you follow him into the decline, your grip on him tightening in order to keep him close, rather than to drag him in. Your heart is throbbing, almost aching to burst free from your chest cavity. To go where, you aren’t sure, but it hurts just the same.

He kisses down over your collarbones, following the plunging neckline of your dress. His mouth leaves searing kisses down your chest, the sensation lingering even after he’s moved on. He stops at he reaches the bottom of your cleavage.

“Permission to remove the dress?” he asks with a smirk, though his eyes are nothing but honest.

You nod, reaching for the bottom of your dress to pull it up. Your fingers meet as he gives you a hand, the red fabric hitting the floor seconds later. You didn’t wear a bra underneath, with the dress having built in support, leaving you in nothing but your flimsy panties. His lips resume their journey across your bare chest as his warm, calloused fingers trace down your sides, drawing out a shiver from you.

One of your hands are in Clint’s hair, and you can tell he loves it by the low groan that stirs in his throat each time you pull just a _little_ too hard. The thought of him in leather cuffs crosses your mind, and you let out a low moan at the thought. One day.

 _Hold up Y/n. You don’t do seconds,_ you remind yourself. Shit, this couldn’t be good. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, you reason. No risk of romance here. No, sir.

Clint bites a particularly sensitive part of your stomach, snapping you away from your heavy thoughts. He glances up at you from near your hip, and _damn_ that’s definitely making its way into your list of top ten sexiest moments.

“Doing okay up there?” he asks with a playful smirk.

“I’d be doing a lot better if you were doing something else with your mouth other than talking,” you sass at him. He grins in response and winks, moving his fingers to play along the edge of your panties.

“May I?” he asks, curling his thumbs under each side of the fabric.

“Be my guest,” you say with a grin. Clint doesn’t need any further encouragement, sliding them down your legs and onto the floor beside your dress. His warm hands move down to your knees, pulling gently. You comply, opening your legs without a fuss, confident in yourself. His hands slide back up your thighs as he moves over your slit, his breath ghosting against you, teasing you.

“Barton,” you growl, lifting your hips a little. You can see him smiling, the bastard. He’s clearly enjoying teasing you. Two can play at that game though. You’d get him back later.

He kisses along your inner thighs, in no hurry at all, nipping at the skin occasionally. His earlier eagerness and desperation is long gone, replaced by a desire to explore and please. It terrifies you.

“Barton, I swear to God,” you threaten him in a low growl.

 _Finally,_ he gives you what you need, his tongue tracing your folds, lapping up the moisture already gathered there. And _damn_ does it feel good. Clint clearly knows what he’s doing, moving up to focus on your clit as his fingers continue to gently run over your thighs. He uses just the right amount of pressure, gliding his tongue across your most sensitive spots until you’re legs are gently shaking in his grip. All you can hear is him lapping at you, and his heavy breathing. The quiet sounds are broken up by your moans, and the occasional sigh. The pleasure has built up to near bursting point, and your hands are in his hair, running over his temples, and grabbing his hands. Just whatever part of him you can reach, really. He looks up at you again from between your legs, an expression of pure ecstasy written in his beautiful eyes and you fucking _lose_ it, choking out his name like a prayer.

He keeps going, driving you through your release, his movements slowing down before stopping entirely as you become over-sensitive. He crawls back atop you, and you realise then that he’s still completely clothed, save his boots which he’d taken off earlier. He doesn’t seem to mind though, curling up into you, pressing his lips against your neck. He’s still breathing heavily, and you can feel the hot air tickling your skin.

“Damn, Barton,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realise you were as talented with your mouth as you are your hands.”

He laughs, his body shaking along the length of yours. “I aim to please, Miss (Y/l/n),” he says, his voice rough.

“Get up here,” you growl, tugging on his hair lightly. He complies, and you pull him into a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on him, mixed in with the last traces of whiskey. You kiss him desperately, fighting the gentleness he’s shown all night, afraid of what it could lead to. He must get the hint, because he soon starts to match your speed, fighting you for dominance.

You pull away for a moment to ask, “Bedroom?” He nods, and moves away, allowing you to stand up. You look at each other for a moment before coming back together, your mouths clashing together in a mess of tongues and lips and teeth. You yelp as he lifts you up, his hands under your ass as you wrap your legs around his waist. He walks you to the bedroom like that, and you’re too tipsy to care how ridiculous you must look, stark naked while he’s still fully dressed. You’re about to fix that anyway.

“Which way?” he asks, pausing as he reaches the hallway.

“Second on the left,” you tell him, nibbling at his ear. You yelp again as he playfully smacks your bare ass. He gives you a shit-eating grin, his hair a mess, and you pull him into another kiss.

The lights come on automatically as you enter, and you stop him for a moment to adjust the dimmer to something a little more appropriate. Once you’re satisfied, he moves you over to the bed which, you’re proud to say, is fucking enormous.

“Damn, (Y/n),” he growls, dropping you onto the bedcover.

“Not bad, eh?” you say with a grin, stretching out over the mattress.

He grins, crawling up the bed until he’s hovering over you at eyelevel. “Not bad at all,” he agrees, his lips smashing up against yours as he lowers himself against you gently. You make it a mission to get him out of his clothes as swiftly as you can, reaching down to yank his shirt out from his jeans. You break the kiss briefly to pull it over his head, wrapping your legs around his middle once his shirt is on the floor.

“My turn,” you growl, pushing against his chest as you use your legs to flip him onto his back. You grin victoriously as you straddle him. He watches you closely, his eyes glinting with amusement. You know you’re only in this position because he allowed it, (seriously, he’s packing some crazy muscle), but he’s still exactly where you want him, so it doesn’t matter.

You run your fingers over his chest, tracing the many scars that mark his tan skin. You glance at his face briefly, and see him watching you guardedly, his expression having dropped a little. You realise it must be a sore point for him, all his flaws and scars, having mentioned it earlier. Hoping to reassure him, you kiss along a particularly nasty one across his ribs, being sure to watch him as you do so. He’s smirking again, his walls firmly back in place as he watches you. The unyielding eye contact between the two of you is becoming too intense, and you turn your eyes downward, focusing closely on where you’re going.

You make your way downwards slowly, running your nails along his sides, giving him much the same treatment as he’d shown you earlier. You waste no time in undoing his jeans and yanking them down his legs, his briefs going along with them. Finally, he’s as bare as you are, and you can’t help but feel a little breathless at the sight, even in the dim lighting.

Smirking at him, you lower your head to kiss along his thighs, and you feel him jump slightly at the sensation. Looks like you aren’t the only one that’s sensitive there. You tease him the same way he did you, using your mouth to torment him. Finally, he lets out a low growl, hissing your name as you turn your attention to his balls.

“Christ, (Y/n), point taken! I won’t tease you so much next time,” he growls.

There it is again, _next time._ You quell the sudden jolt of panic that hits you, taking his stiffened cock in hand and giving it a firm tug. He swears again, precome leaking from the tip. You give him a long lick, starting from the base and moving upwards to lick up the moisture gathered on his head. You hear him gasp, his fingers flexing in the sheets.

“(Y/n),” he whines, and the pure _need_ in his voice is enough to give you pause.

“Yes, Barton?” you ask, grinning up at him.

He rolls his eyes, and you give him another lick. He swears loudly. “Get up here,” he growls.

“But I’m having so much fun down here,” you say, curling your tongue around the tip. Your dominant hand moves to play with his balls, your fingers reaching around to stroke the sensitive skin behind. Clint swears again, and even with a mouthful of cock, you still manage to smirk at him.

“I swear to god, (Y/n), if you don’t get that fine ass up here I’m gonna spank you till its _glowing_ ,” he threatens. His eyes are dark, the iris nearly consumed whole by the pupil. You swallow, letting him go with a _pop_ before obeying.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” you say, crawling up the bed until your face is above his. His hand is in your hair before you know it, and he’s pulling you down into an open-mouthed kiss that’s anything but gentle. His stubble is ticking you again, and you’re sure it’s going to show up on your face tomorrow, but it feels so good that you can’t be bothered to care.

Clint’s strong arms are around you again, pulling you tight against him so that your breasts are practically flattened against his chest. His cock is probably under just as much stress; you can feel it pressed against the crease between your thigh and mound.

He eases up his grip to let his hands roam, and you gasp as his palm glances of your bare ass. He rubs it immediately after, and you feel a moan bubble in your throat.

“That’s for being a tease,” Clint growls, his hand sliding up your back. He uses your hair to pull you up a little, giving him access to your neck. Clint isn’t shy about nipping you there, his ministrations rougher than they were before. How on earth he was holding back from fucking you into the mattress, you weren’t sure. He’d surely have blue balls by now.

“When are you going to fuck me?” you growl, pulling back to look at him. “I’m starting to get wrinkles, you know.”

“Can’t you just rewind the clock?” he says with a smirk. “We could do this all night.”

You pause, eyeing him thoughtfully. It wasn’t something you’d actually considered with other partners. If you made him come, could you return his dick to an earlier time to have him ready to go again? The possibility excited you. Your exhaustion was starting to settle in now though, so you’d have to save it for another time.

You swear internally as you realise you’ve done it again. _No ‘next time’ (Y/l/n), got it?_ you remind yourself.

“Barton, I swear, if you don’t _get in me_ in the next five seconds I’ll rewind the _whole_ night and go to a different bar. Maybe I should track down Cap instead. I hear he has amazing stamin—”

You’re cut off by your own yelp as Clint pushes up into you. You let out an involuntary moan at how _good_ it feels.

“Sorry, actually, I should go grab a condom,” he apologises, pulling out. “I just couldn’t have you running off to Cap.”

“Hey, hey,” you stop him, pushing him back down. “Built in contraception, yeah?” you remind him.

His blue eyes widen in the near-darkness. “You can do that?”

You nod, smiling at him. “Pretty handy.”

“Damn, (Y/n). You’re every guys wet dream, they just don’t know it yet.”

You laugh, sliding your hands down his flawed chest. “I’d rather they didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to step outside ever again.”

“I’d rather they didn’t too,” he says quietly, and before you can read too deeply into his words, he’s pushing up into you again. You’re expecting it this time, but the stretch feels just as good. You move your hips, building up a steady rhythm. Clint’s eyes have narrowed to slits, his forehead creased with concentration, or pleasure. You can’t really be sure. His lips are parted, his breaths coming out uneven. He’s making these sexy little grunts and sighs, and you can’t help but lean down to kiss him. It’s messy, because you’re still moving your hips, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Damn, (y/n),” he sighs, reaching up to play with your breasts. His eyes are on yours, and the openness you find there is a little scary. There’s something intense about the way he looks at you, something about his _eyes_ that just seems unusual. It’s breathtaking and terrifying. You kiss him just for an excuse to close your eyes.

“Hey, I wanna switch it up,” he says when you finally pull away from his lips.

You nod. “Where do you want me?”

“On your back.”

A few seconds later and your positions have switched, your legs draped over his hips as he kneels between them. You watch him enter you, knowing those all-seeing eyes are watching your face. You wonder how deep they can see, if he can read into your soul.

 _God, (y/n), you’re not drinking ever again,_ you scold yourself. At least you aren’t talking shit out loud. It could always be worse.

Clint saves the day, snapping his hips sharply to pull you away from your internal rambling. He hits something deep in you, and you gasp for air, locking your eyes back onto his as you reach for him. He leans over you as he drives into you at a steady pace, allowing you to get a firm grip on his shoulders. His breath is on your ear, and you’re grateful that you can’t see his face. It’s too overwhelming.

“Damn it, Barton,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. His lips find your neck again, only briefly, before he starts letting out low gasps, his pace speeding up. Your eyes close as your pleasure builds, and you can feel the storm rolling in, ready to pull you under.

“Please,” you practically whimper, holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. He must realise you’re close, because he changes his angle and hits you at the right spot, over and over again. The hawk never misses his mark. You’re too distracted to consider that though as white-hot pleasure ripples from your core through the rest of your body. You cry out, pulling Clint up flush against you in a vice-like grip as you arch off the bed a little. The rolling waves of your orgasm gradually subside, and you fall back against the bed with a contented sigh. Your legs are shaking now, held steady only by Clint’s steady hands.

He’s still moving in you, slower now, as he pulls back to look you over. You give him a lazy grin, reaching up to run a hand down his neck where a couple of veins have appeared. His skin is glistening in the low light from the fine sheen of sweat over his skin.

“C’mon Barton, let it go,” you tell him. He moves down so that he’s against your neck again, his pace speeding up until he’s going faster than he was before. You knot your fingers in his hair and pull harshly, and he comes in you with a broken groan. He gives a few lazy thrusts to pull himself through his climax, pulling away when he’s done.

Clint moves over to lie beside you, his chest heaving as he fights to regain his breath. You both say nothing, staring at the ceiling as you come down from the high. The urge to curl up against him is overwhelming in your post-orgasmic haze, but you fight it, moving to sit upright instead.

“Where are you going?” Clint asks from behind you, still lying down.

You frown at the skyline visible through to floor to ceiling windows opposite your bed. “To clean up.”

He lets you go without protest, and you saunter over to the adjoining ensuite, closing the door behind you. You use your powers to do a clean out, but leave it at that, peeing and giving your face a splash of water. Your eyes look unusually bright as your brush your teeth, but you don’t think much of it. When you’re done, you stand at the edge of the sink, focusing on your breathing. Your head’s starting to clear as the alcohol runs its course, but the fog of drowsiness hanging over you leaves you feeling just as muddled up. You need sleep, you decide. You’ll sort out the mess in the morning.

Clint’s perched on the edge of the bed when you return, his clothes gathered in a pile beside him. You smile at him hesitantly, and he returns it only a fraction more steadily.

“Do you have a guest bathroom you’d like me to use, or…?” he trails off, looking only a little uncertain. You wonder if he gets into this situation often.

“Don’t be silly, Barton. You can use the ensuite.” He nods, taking his clothes with him. “You don’t have to get dressed for my sake, either,” you call to him as he goes into the bathroom. He grins back at you and closes the door.

You shake your head, thinking how surreal it all feels now that you’re away from him. After spending years hoping to see him again, to suddenly screwing him in the wee hours of the morning, you could comfortably say that things had escalated quickly. Sure, it wasn’t unusual for you to bring home strangers for the night, but you usually took them to a hotel or booted them out soon after. Trust issues, and all that.

You’re in bed by the time he comes back out, wearing only his briefs. You’d also slipped into a clean pair of panties and a night gown, not yet being accustomed to sleeping naked and all.

He stops at the end of the bed, looking uncertain. “I, uh, guess I should go test out this couch theory?”

You let out a sudden snicker, finding it funnier than it should be. _Nope, still drunk._ “Seriously, Barton? We just screwed each other’s brains out. Your fine ass can sleep in the bed.”

Clint pouts a little, and you can’t help but think how adorable he looks. “What about the rest of me?”

“Oh, if you must,” you say in a dramatic sigh, throwing him a smirk after.

He unceremoniously dumps his clothes back on the floor before circling around the bed, crawling in on the other side. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he grumbles once he’s settled on his back.

“Enjoying what?”

“Making me look awkward.”

“I’d say the correct term would be _hawk_ ward _,”_ you correct him. You can practically hear him roll his eyes. He turns over to face you, and once again you’re startled by his eyes.

“I’ll get the lights,” you say quickly, rolling over to flick the switch. There’s still light faintly coming in through the windows from the city beyond, but it’s still enough of a difference to tone down his gaze.

“Nervous about tomorrow?” he asks after a few silent minutes pass.

“A little. At least if I say something stupid I can rewind and try again.”

Clint laughs silently, but the light shaking of the bed gives him away. “Did you do that with me?”

“No,” you say, honestly. “Didn’t feel the need to.”

“You won’t go back and change any of this, will you?” his voice sounds vulnerable in the darkness, his breath lightly fanning over your face.

“I don’t think I’d need to. Unless you’re going to be an awkward troll about it later.”

“Can’t guarantee that,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his tone. “Guess I’d better make the most of it while I can then.”

And then he’s kissing you, slow and gentle, his lips warm and his stubble still tickling you. It catches you off guard, and you stiffen instinctively, but after a moment you think _what the hell,_ and kiss him back. His fingers find your hair again, pulling you in closer, and soon, his warmth is flush up against you, leaving only a few feeble layers of fabric to separate you.

You’re breathless by the time he pulls away, and something in you starts to crack a little.

“Night, (y/n),” he says quietly, pulling his hand away from your hair.

“Sweet dreams, Barton.”

 


End file.
